


You find out (nothing that I wouldn't wanna tell you about)

by winterysomnium



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Blood, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:57:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3519686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So. What are you doing in town? I thought you had plans today?” he asks, watches as lights string necklaces across Gotham’s limbs, as Jason steps to his side, as he imitates every star, flickering with something seemingly immortal, with something seemingly constant, a part of this world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You find out (nothing that I wouldn't wanna tell you about)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day, thestreetsatnight! Thank you for all your support and love. Title is a lyric from the song “Sweater Weather” by The Neighbourhood.

Tim feels him, above his shoulders.

Feels less than _him_ , at first. Senses a presence and it’s not Jason until he speaks, until he jumps down the shallow roof, until he asks: “Good ending?” murmured throughout the lean alley, the dizzying wine seeping across the space of Tim’s boots, a man laying among the shards, asleep in drunken percents, Jason’s voice an unreachable warmth and the man is silent, all motion gone and spilling alcohol instead of blood and —

“Don’t know if _good_ , but better than I thought,” Tim answers, glances at the effortless smoothness of Jason’s mask, hiding most of Jason’s quirks, most of his small specifics and then he looks down, to the damp colour of the ground, his boots squeak as he steps away from the soaking sea. “From above it looked a lot like blood, but he’s just drunk. I called an ambulance a few minutes ago. Should be here soon.” Tim glances at the man, resembling worse memories, resembling scenes Tim wants to forget and he reaches for his grapple gun and points, tilted enough to miss the stars, angled enough to secure the line to a sturdy surface above and Jason moves, close, the space between them swept to inches, to nearly touches as Jason focuses on the guy, on Tim, on everything visible about Tim’s bare, honest face, about everything written under his skin.

“Good call. Too cold to sleep outside tonight,” Jason says, nods towards the man, turns back to Tim’s lenses, to the cold creeping up Tim’s nose. “Can I hitch a ride?” he asks and Tim says: “Sure.”  with curiosity attached but he arches his arm, wraps it around Jason’s jacket, copying the contours of Jason’s back, his shoulders and neck and in seconds, they’re tugged towards the last floors of buildings, to the last spaces before they end in air, before they’re cut off in concrete and metal haircuts and they climb to higher grounds, with ease, with memory, and Jason murmurs: “Thanks.” and he lingers, with his voice and his fingers and Tim tucks the grapple away, settles near the center of the roof and looks for trouble, looks back at Jason when he finds none, when the comlink hums of calm.

“So. What are you doing in town? I thought you had plans today?” he asks, watches as lights string necklaces across Gotham’s limbs, as Jason steps to his side, as he imitates every star, flickering with something seemingly immortal, with something seemingly constant, a part of this world.

“Plans changed.” Jason shrugs, hides his fingers in the less chilly pockets of his jacket, tries to find the exact, faraway place Tim is looking at. ( _It might be the river_ , he thinks. _It might be the sea._ )

“Say, did you know today was Valentine’s when you asked me if I would be here last week?” he asks and Tim laughs, softly, significantly, like there’s a story behind the sound, behind the source of the emotion.

(And there is.)

“Initially — no,” he admits. “But a few days back Steph asked if we were going to spend Saturday together and I said no, since you won’t be in town and she asked _you won’t be together on Valentine’s Day?_ and I asked _is that this week_? and then she called me hopeless. So no, I didn’t. I figured you either didn’t want to celebrate or didn’t know either, which considering you’re here now … you didn’t know?” Tim asks and Jason laughs too, because honestly —

“We’re _both_ pretty hopeless,” he says, with a grin and he knows Tim hears it, knows he can tell and Tim’s own expression is soft, soothing, sheepish in the corners of his mouth.

“It’s not really _that_ important,” he answers and yeah, it’s — not. But it could be a chance, too. Could be a boost of courage.

It’s not important.

(But it’s not _nothing_ , either.)

Jason looks away from the street. “No, it’s not. But I don’t think there’s anything fundamentally wrong with the holiday either, you know? It’s not bad to buy someone you care about a bigass chocolate and tell them it’s okay if they eat all of it at once and then feel sick because you’re going to find the nearest pharmacy and get them stomach medicine no matter what goddamn hour it is and rub their back all night if needed, you know?” he says, softer, wishing he took off his helmet earlier, sooner, and now is too late and Tim fiddles with a strand of his hair sticking out of his cowl, right above his ear and he looks at Jason, hands still tucking it back, looks at him like he has said something right, for once.

“Did you buy me a bigass chocolate?” he asks, with a smirk, just as soft and Jason thinks — thinks he could love someone like this for a while. For at least another life.

(For at least the entirety of his.)

“Yup, with chili,” he answers and Tim hums, appreciatively; his smile stays the same.

Tim stays Tim and Jason stays — here. (For at least another day. (Or two.))

“You _do_ know me,” Tim says, as a joke on his mouth but he’s somehow calmer, somehow happier, with everything, with all the things between them and all the things that are not, with all the things that are forgotten by their synapses and all that aren’t found yet, he’s happy with everything they are, with Jason. He’s happy they are at all.

“Good thing I got you something too, then. It’s back at my place, though,” Tim says, gestures with his hand, a vague motion, vague mentions of direction and Jason leaves his thoughts to wander, to drift, right towards that place.

“I actually left yours at your place, too,” he says in answer, copying Tim’s gesture from before, adding a motion or two, smaller, quicker, subtler in their reach. (Tim tracks their routes, as they disappear.)

“Not easy to carry things around and not break anything,” Jason explains and — there it is: a hint of suspicion, fusing into Tim’s tone, into his words as he realizes all of the meaning, as he asks: “Did you use your key this time?” as if Jason breaking in into his apartment in unusual ways is a rule, like it’s a regularity, like it’s _not_ the once in a year exception it actually is.

Jason huffs.

“ _Yes_ , I used the _key_ and all your windows are _fine_. I didn’t even touch them.”

“Good to hear,” Tim says, nodding and —

“Man, you’re kinda unbelievable though!” Jason answers in return. “I even fixed the damn window myself the last time I broke it, I don’t know _what_ you’re complaining about. I was _bleeding_ and it was an _emergency_. Who the hell remembers fancy codes with two bullets in their thigh and a concussion? Not me that’s for fucking sure,” he grumbles, nearly not as annoyed as he probably should be, definitely not as exasperated but with a purpose to his words and _perhaps_ faintly embarrassed about _all of it_ and Tim softens, nudges Jason’s arm.

“The only reason I was unhappy with that was because you managed to cut your arm on the glass too,” he says, pauses. “And okay, maybe because it was freezing that night and you picked my bedroom window. But _mostly_ because of all the glass I had to get out of you besides those bullets. It was a bit of a dumb move, you have to admit,” he says, brushes his shoulder against Jason’s and Jason could count all the dumb things _Tim_ had done only in the last week but — he sighs, quietly, instead.

“Wasn’t my best night, _I admit_. Can we talk about something else now, like when are you planning on ending your patrol tonight? I’d kinda really appreciate that,” he says and Tim peeks down to the street below, the man now safe within the warmth of the ambulance, within the warmth of human care, the medics with him, the glass and the scent of alcohol all that’s left of the hour, of the scenery before.

“Well, _he’s_ all taken care of,” Tim says, focuses on the quiet. “And I don’t hear about anything happening on the feed, either.”

“You have your bike on you?” Jason asks, and Tim hums, again.

“Yeah. Parked right behind this building.” He nods towards the direction and Jason grins.

“Good thing I’m already wearing my helmet then, huh?” he says and Tim snorts, amused and — who would have thought.

They’re actually good for each other.

(They’re actually really freaking good.)


End file.
